


Red Templar

by eternalshiva



Series: Dragon Age Inquisition: Cullen x Fernweh Trevelyan [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Minor Violence, Red Lyrium
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-27 23:03:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2709926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalshiva/pseuds/eternalshiva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Cullen didn't take the position in the Inquisition- what if he stayed with the Templars? What if he followed the Lord Seeker?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Templar

**Author's Note:**

> artsyneurotic: Has anyone written a prompt where Cullen gets corrupted by red lyrium? … Because I totally want to read that. … *cough cough eternalshiva cough*

It tastes different.

The familiar blue glow of his liquid poison doesn’t exist anymore, now, it was seeped into various shades of red. He feels it deep in his blood, it isn't the same texture and he can’t decide if it tastes better or worst.

They say it’s safer, that they can finally be free of the Chantry’s hold on their dependence of it. He wants to believe them. He needs to believe them. They up the intake, he trusts them.

* * *

It’s not long before there’s a change in his thoughts that slips by him. At first it was subtle, there were no more doubts on his orders. He felt stronger, more confident in the order but then there were other things that still bothered him a little – the hushed voices when there was no one around.

Whispers that crawled from the base of his spine into his brain, digging and churning thoughts he’d kept at bay for years. They entice him, they stir in him a violence he isn’t familiar with and it frightens him at first. Another day, another vial and the memories of the Ferelden Circle slip away; he doesn’t feel chained by them anymore.

He’s forgotten the very reason why he became a Templar. He is consumed with thoughts that are not his own and he hasn’t noticed that he has turned to greed.

* * *

It burns.

His skin itches, the pulse of his heart grows strong with each vial he consumes. He doesn’t fear the old demons any longer, he can hear them clearly now – a song, a lullaby flowing from the depths of the earth that drowns everything else. His need matches their own. He closes his eyes and hums along.

His thoughts are tinged with red, much like his eyes – he hasn’t noticed the red crystals growing on his back – it’s just an itch he can’t satisfy no matter how much he scratches with his nails. The blood soaks through his undershirts, he scratches and scratches; there’s no relief until the skin breaks and the red tips poke out of his flesh.

More whispers. Gentle voices lulling him into a single thought. _Worship not Andraste or Her Maker, for I have seen the black city and its throne is empty._ It’s true, yes – he nods in agreement, the chant of light is but lies. He’s forgotten the teachings and struggles to recall just what The Maker is. It doesn’t matter. There is only one purpose to his existence. He parts his lips, the red lyrium kisses his tongue and he feels whole again.

* * *

There’s pain, first the curve of his spine warps his stance, but he doesn’t notice – everyone around him looks the same, he swallows more red poison but he doesn’t mind, the song is getting stronger and he wants to get closer to the source.

He is bound by her notes, mind and soul slipping against each other in a battle that was never meant to be won. The itching subsides, thankfully, and the crystals that erupted from within are melded with his armor. He is bright again, a beacon of red light in the shadow of his God. He will make them whole again, he promised them.

The lyrium burns but he welcomes it.

He _welcomes_ the pain.

* * *

He’s lost his voice – mere grunts and groans escape his lips from time to time. His head hurts, his body is on fire but its fine, _he_ said it was fine. There was no reason to question. Questions lead to… Lead to what? He can’t recall… He grasps at the bottle between his claws and brings it to his leathery lips – it is more teeth than flesh – he can’t remember… He pauses, he sees a face in his fading memories and it hurts to go further so he tips the vial and drinks again.

* * *

He marches, the snow blows in the mountains, his allies follow suit in their attack towards a small village he used to know in his old life but cares not to dwell upon. He no longer carries a sword, his flesh is grey and sick, the Templar emblem of his armor is faded and embedded into his skin. It has branded him. Traitor to the Order, traitor to the Maker.

 _There is no Maker, the throne is empty_ . He said that. _He said_ …

Cullen’s soul is but a whisper in the chaos of his mind – _Kill the herald_. The voice booms hard inside him mind. _Kill the fake prophet of Andraste, who’s Maker does not sit in the Black City._

Each step sinks into the snowy road, he is heavy with lyrium and crystals but his mind is light with purpose. He moves forward, carried by a melody only the blighted can hear.

* * *

He aches.

Power seeps from his body, the lyrium depletes with each attack but he is not concerned – the voice pushes him, he draws upon his Templar skill and all of those who oppose fall before him.

Whispers, all he hears are whispers of a life he’s forgotten.

The Herald stands before him.

* * *

“Cullen?”

A dwarf – he does not acknowledge the name that slipped their lips since he cannot remember it. The whispers itch, they ache – the voice of his master pushes him beyond the limit of what was left of his humanity. A pulse of power and suddenly, he towers above them, deformed under the pressure of the Red Lyrium growing inside him. It’s expanding. He can’t move as well as before. He is slow but his power is immeasurable.

The Herald is tired, he can tell. She’s slowing down. She screams when his clawed hand grabs her by the throat and he holds her off the ground. Her struggle is admirable, he admits to himself between the slips of lucidity and madness.

She kicks him, hard – a knife slips out of the front of her boot and strikes him deep in the gut, slicing him open. Does he bleed still? He wouldn't know. It doesn't even hurt.

He grunts, anger brims over – Haven is burning around them, they're winning; he can sense it through her fear.

_There is no Maker, he knows that, and so should she._

Their eyes meet for a moment but he can’t sympathise with her anger, her struggle to live. He squeezes harder, her breath is hard and harsh, her skin is tinged red and purple.

She struggles, and he admires her for it. Why does he admire her for it?

_Do something! Varric! Shoot it!_

She’s shouting words he can’t recognize, his fingers twitch, the lyrium sings in his veins, he sees the dwarf in the background but all he can do is focus on his task.

_Kill the Herald, kill the fake prophet. There is no Maker. Kill -_

“Sorry, Curly.” The voice is sad, he turns towards the dwarf in confusion, the Herald's blood is finally on his hand but she's still breathing. 

He hears the notch of an arrow and suddenly, it's silent. 


End file.
